by Jan Needle
At 3.17 am, Raymond Orchard was pronounced dead, and the cell was cleared. The local coroner’s officer was informed of the tragedy at twenty-five minutes to ten that morning, and an hour later the body was removed from Bowscar Prison for a post mortem examination in the town thirteen miles away. The cause of death was quite straightforward: asphyxiation. Raymond Orchard had hanged himself with a bandage.
THIRTEEN
London. Forbes and Rosanna.
‘Dulce domum,’ said Andrew flatly. ‘You’ve read The Wind in the Willows, I suppose? Dulce fucking domum.’
Rosanna, standing in the desolate room, looked at him to see how upset he really was. They had been celebrating for most of the evening, and they were both quite drunk. They had been with Peter Jackson in the Princess Louise.
‘I don’t quite see you as Mole,’ she replied, lightly. ‘And I don’t think we’ll be visited by any carol-singing field mice, do you?’ She paused. Forbes was looking round the room, his expression bleak. ‘They’ve made an awful mess,’ she added, soberly. ‘I suppose it wasn’t burglars, was it?’
He grinned tightly as he passed her on his way to the front window. He pulled the curtain back, a bold, open gesture.
‘Fat Ivan’s gone,’ he said. ‘The old green Lada. They’ll be somewhere out there, in one of the old wrecks. I ought to flog them the Porsche, didn’t I? They could sit right outside the door. They probably think they deserve a Porsche. More their image. Bastards.’
‘Could it, though? Be burglars? I mean – well, it is a pretty rough area, isn’t it? And they’ve made an awful mess.’
Forbes, returning from the window, nodded to the TV set. It had been kicked over, probably wrecked, but it was still there. As were all the DVDs and paraphernalia. Nothing floggable had gone.
‘Do me a favour, little Mouse,’ he said. ‘The mess is a statement of intent. To tell us something.’
‘I need a wee,’ Rosanna said. ‘Will you...would you come with me, please?’
‘What!’
‘Oh get that stupid grin wiped off! I’m scared. There might be someone here. That’s all.’
They walked up the carpet-less stairs together. As they did so, Forbes tore a long strip of hanging wallpaper off.
‘It must have been quite frustrating for the lads, trying to make a mess in this place. It would have been more unsettling if they’d redecorated it for me. I suppose you don’t want me to come inside and hold your hand?’
Rosanna turned the bathroom light on, apprehensively. Everything was normal. Towels everywhere, the hand basin tap dripping onto a mushy bar of soap, a toilet roll on the floor.
‘You could check the bedrooms,’ she said, closing the door. ‘It might seem normal to you, my pet, but it’s not to me. I mean being burgled by the secret services, not watching someone have a pee. I’m nervous.’
To satisfy his own mind as well as hers, Andrew did a quick tour of the house. He was not upset, nor even angry, at what they’d done. He found it vaguely depressing, merely. Everything, every box, every pile of books, every unhung picture had been kicked over, or trodden on, or messed about. It was so crude, so pointless.
Rosanna’s mattress had been dragged onto the floor, and her dressing-table drawers had been tipped everywhere. He was standing in his room when she rejoined him.
‘Jings,’ she breathed. ‘Steamer in a Snowstorm. How nasty can you get?’
The duvet had been slashed from end to end, then shaken. The bare wood floor was ankle deep in white feathers, and the red plastic of the telephone, peeping through the down, looked startlingly like a gutted duck. Forbes bent to pick it up. He checked the dialling tone.
‘They’re not completely daft,’ he said. ‘They’ve left their little bugged device intact. Maybe they’ve put some more in, so that they can listen to us talk. D’you want a coffee? I doubt if they’ll have rolled the kitchen. Scared of getting botulism.’
Later that evening, Forbes and Rosanna went to bed together for the first time. It came as a complete surprise to Forbes, and not much less of one to her. She had not known for certain it was going to happen until they were in his bedroom again, surveying the soft white chaos. He looked so lost.
‘Andrew,’ she said. ‘I’ll get my duvet from my room. Can you clear the feathers off the mattress?’
‘What? ‘
‘You heard. You did warn me once, I seem to remember. Beware of the mothering instinct, or helpless men, or something. Well it’s happened.’
‘Good God. Are you sure?’
She bridled.
‘Are you serious! Are you trying to turn me down!’
‘No! Christ, no, not at all! But...fuck!’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Rosanna, rather primly. ‘I want to talk, that’s all. Well… And anyway, you said they might have bugged the place. They won’t have bugged my pillow, I suppose.’
Forbes’ face lit up with pleasure. He looked into a corner of the room and gave the thumbs up sign.
‘Thanks boys,’ he said. ‘You can raid me any time.’ He started brushing at the feathers with his hands. ‘Hey, missie, make sure you come back! Please don’t change your mind.’
When she returned, towing the duvet behind her, Rosanna had already put on a long red cotton nightdress. Her small face, framed by its short, dark hair, was serious. As she threw the covering across the bed, a cloud of feathers scuttled across the floorboards, rose, then softly fell. Andrew, who was not the world’s shyest man in normal times, was suddenly very shy.
‘You get in,’ he said. ‘I’m going to the bathroom. I hope the bastards aren’t listening, Rosanna. But they might be.’
When he returned, wearing only his shirt, he turned the light off at the doorway and slipped under the duvet with her. For a moment they lay quite rigid, then turned to face each other, lying on their sides. Andrew put his right hand on her shoulder, and Rosanna touched his hip.
‘We can be very quiet,’ she said. ‘Anyway, it’s their problem more than ours, I guess. Perverts shouldn’t worry us.’
‘No,’ said Andrew. Rosanna moved her head forward in the darkness and kissed him, dry and gently, on the mouth.
‘It’s good about McGregor, isn’t it? Fancy old Adrian Rafferty finding out at last. You’re a clever little devil, Mr Forbes.’
‘Fancy it being Bowscar. Peter was amused. The Animal could be sharing with his Yankee chum! Anyway, you started it, Wee Miss Nixon.’
‘We’ve got to confirm it though,’ said Rosanna. ‘You know what a lush old Rafferty is. And he said it was two weeks ago. His last information. How can we confirm it?’
They were quiet for a while. Andrew moved his hand down from her shoulder and put it on her rib-cage. He could feel her ribs.
He said: ‘Rosanna. How old are you?’
‘I told you. Twenty-eight. I’ll soon be twenty-nine.’
‘I’ll soon be forty. Why are you in bed with me? I didn’t ask you this time.’
‘No. You didn’t ask me. This time.’
She lifted her hand from his hip and laid it on the side of his face. In the dark, he saw her smile.
‘I want some peace,’ she said.
*
Bowscar. Four men, one cell.
For the first hour after Charles Lister was moved into their cell, Masters, Hughes and Jerrold hardly spoke. Considering the conditions they were living in, Masters in particular was surprised by the sense of invasion that he felt. Not the physical one, of crushing, claustrophobic proximity, but a corroding of his mental state, the indescribable resentment that his territory was under attack, that an alien being had been forced into an enclosed and self-sufficient unit. The violence in the air was not from him alone. Jerrold’s face was a mask of repression, while the very fact that Hughes had taken to his bunk spoke loud. Alan Hughes hated his bunk, except as a place to sleep in. Now, without a confrontation, he had no choice.
The American was a stocky man, of enormous latent power. His face bore neither smi
le nor scowl when the officers delivered him, and they did not enter into the normal banter, friendly or aggressive, that they shared with every other prisoner. He held a washbag and a towel and a few small items, and he wore jeans, dark shirt, a denim jacket.
When he entered the cell, Jerrold was already lying on his bunk, and Masters was seated on his. When Hughes stood, there was no room to move. Too many legs, too many bodies, in too small a space. Masters swung his legs onto his bed and Hughes, allowing the newcomer to squeeze past him, lowered himself onto his. Lister stood for perhaps half a minute, watching them, feeling the resentment grow. Then he sat, and stretched his legs in front of him. He produced a pack of Golden Virginia and began to roll a cigarette. A fat one.
‘I guess you guys don’t mind if I smoke?’ he drawled.
Not waiting for an answer, he struck a match.
Horribly, for Masters, the feeling of resentment, of dislocation, was gradually replaced by a growing need inside him for the lavatory. It was almost certainly a claustrophobic reaction, which somehow made it worse. Since the riot, his confidence in the strength of his own will had been devastatingly undermined. He had dreamed several times of being securely locked up, with screams and smoke and bangings assailing him through the heavy door, and he had awoken streaming sweat. The presence of another body in the cell was turning his resolve – and his stomach – to water. He could feel his face paling with the effort of control. His breath got shorter. He laid his forearm across his mouth to mask the noise. It must not happen. It must not.
But it did. After a bitter struggle, Masters crushed a cry and stumbled to his feet. He began punching at the night bell, his stomach cramped, his body bending forward. Hughes stood beside him, touching him lightly on the back. Jerrold’s face twisted with anger at the screws, the new man, his friend’s predicament.
‘The bastards,’ he spat. ‘The bastards never come. The bastards.’
Throughout the next few minutes, which were to Masters completely horrible, Charles Lister did not say a word. He moved back into a corner to give Masters room to use the bucket, and he rolled and lit another cigarette, quickly. He angled the chair away from the agonised man, looking up at the high ceiling, smoking impassively. Jerrold and Hughes both glanced at him, at first accusingly, as if it were his fault. Lister, unmoved, smoked on.
When it was over, when the lid was on the plastic bucket, Masters moved towards his bed once more. He felt in some sense violated, as if he had performed an unnatural act. The irony of that was not beyond him, despite his sense of shame. He forced himself to acknowledge Lister.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said, aiming for an even tone. ‘It won’t be what you’re used to.’
Lister flicked ash.
‘How come? Americans do have assholes, believe it. And even your Queen must stink like us when she takes a dump, I guess. Anyway, I chose you guys for the conversation, not the airs and graces.’ His thin, dangerous lips slowly took a curve. ‘After that performance, Mr Masters, can anyone be in doubt? This is a shitter, not a cell. A rat hole. I want out. Like you.’
His words, slowly spoken, deliberately chosen, caused a sensation in all three men which they all tried to keep well hidden. He was telling them, apparently, that he had engineered his transfer to their cell, that it was not a whim of some sadistic prison officer. He was telling them he knew something, however little, about their ... well, one could hardly call it a plan.
It was left to Hughes to speak.
‘What have you heard?’ he asked. ‘And how do we know whose side you’re on? You get visits from policemen, don’t you? Detectives with London accents. Then you get “transferred” to our cell. Four men in a room thirteen by eight. We’re not mad, Mr Lister. What are you? Some kind of agent provocateur?’
Lister was rolling cigarettes, fat cigarettes. He offered them around, and Hughes, the only other smoker, took one. He touched it with his lips.
‘He must be, guy.’ said Jerrold. ‘Ordinary con don’t have no cigarette like that. A corona corona. Tell us you story. Give us a laugh. Only don’t expect us to believe you, right?’
They did believe him, though. He told them his tale with vigour, pinning them, one after the other, with penetrating eyes. He told them that he was in the middle of an operation, and that the clear-out of police cells after Buckie had caught him on the hop. His contacts, the men with London accents, were indeed detectives, and they had failed to get him out. The corruption in the jail was crap, he said. Fags or faggots, no trouble. Drugs and booze, any time, if you had the necessary. But if you mentioned getting out, everyone went blank. No one did that sort of thing. They’d get found out. It would look badly on their record sheets, it would fuck up their promotion. Lister, with a grimace, crushed his cigarette. His contempt was palpable.
‘Little England,’ he muttered. ‘Rat shit city. Well, I believe it, guys. I do believe it now.’
‘And us?’ said Hughes. ‘How did you get on to us, then? I’ve spent a lot of time in this place, and I’ve done a lot of talking. But I don’t imagine I’ve made enough impression for anyone to care about my theories. Let me guess. You’re here for Michael Masters?’
The American studied them in turn, from under lowered brows.
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Masters. That’s the reason. I’ve heard about you, Alan, sure. So fucking what? Alan Hughes, the guy that knows the systems, that knows his way around. Also, the guy that people like, except the screws. The nigger-lover, right? Also the faggot-lover, the man who sticks his head out for the underdog, who cries his eyes out when Cherry Orchard gets fucked to death. What’s your problem, friend?’
He spoke to Matthew Jerrold, whose head was hanging heavy over his bunk. There was quick aggression in the air.
‘You say nigger,’ Jerrold said. ‘What you hear about me, honky? You want I come down there and kill you?’
Lister made a dismissive gesture. He flicked the dead roll-up to the floor. He was relaxed.
‘I hear nothing bad,’ he said, easily. ‘It’s a word, OK? Some of my best men are niggers, some business colleagues. My best lady was a nigger. All I hear about you, is you are mean. And dangerous. And I like the sound of that, that makes me feel at home. You look after Hughes, he looks after you. A team. If we’re going to pull anything in this pen, we need a team.’
Jerrold rolled back onto his bunk. Masters spoke.
‘So what about me? Why am I the reason? I’m like you, I got conned. I know nothing about this place, except I don’t like being here. So far, I can’t see any way of getting out. So what’s this reason?’
‘Think about it,’ Lister said, dismissively. ‘You don’t even need to ask. Everybody knows your story, you were set up. You played Patsy so that some big boys would live. You’re a rich man, everybody says so, you’re fucking Croesus, right, and you want some blood to flow . Now look at me. I got one sixty million riding on a certain date. We’re in the same boat, understand it? We’re going out.’
There was a low whistle from Jerrold’s bunk. One sixty million. Jesus Fuckwit. Nobody else made a sound.
Then Lister said: ‘I told you a little lie, just now. About Mr Hughes and Mr Jerrold. Nobody says much, but I figured that there must be a direction going on, you know? Hughes the fixer, Jerrold the muscle. And Michael just happens to end up in their cell. I needed to be in.’
Masters laughed.
‘It was an accident,’ he said. ‘No plan, no plot. Coincidence.’
‘Bullshit,’ said Charles Lister. ‘So you don’t trust me, fair enough. But look at it this way. Where’s the percentage if I lie to you? If there’s a break-out, someone will get hurt. Lots of people. If you thought I was double-crossing you, you’d have me killed, I guess. Even if you had to wait. And I tell you all this stuff, my business details, stuff like that, on the same strict understanding. Anything goes wrong, any betrayal, and you’re dead men, the same. Masters, tell me now – you’re going out of here, ain’t you? You’re fucking leaving?’
Masters stood. He seemed lost in thought. Then his face cleared.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am.’
He thrust his hand out, and shook Lister’s. Alan Hughes moved across the tiny room and took a cigarette from the small pile on the table. He struck a match.
‘Matthew,’ he said, ‘get up and celebrate, you idle sod. I think the bus is moving.’
‘Yoh!’ said Matthew Jerrold.
*
Bowscar. Brian Rogers. Michael Masters.
Although it was only shortly after eleven o’clock at night when his phone rang, Sir Cyril France was asleep. The voice at the other end sounded fuzzy, but familiar. Vaguely familiar.
‘I beg your pardon?’ he said. ‘Bad line, sorry. Who?’
‘Masters. Michael Masters. Shut up and listen, I haven’t got much time’.
Sir Cyril France’s stomach dropped with shock. He opened his mouth, but his lips only made a small wet noise.
‘Listen,’ said Masters. ‘I’m giving you an ultimatum. Things are happening. Tell the men who got me in here it’s been too long. Time’s running out. D’you understand?’
But Masters is in prison, thought Sir Cyril France. He’s locked away in jail. This can’t be happening.
‘France? Are you listening?’
France whispered: ‘But we’ve tried. There’s nothing we can do. The climate’s just not right.’
There was a harsh noise. A bitter noise.
‘Tell the men, my friend,’ said Masters, ‘that the climate’s a damn sight worse in Bowscar Fucking Prison. It’s fucking terrible. Tell them it’s raining cats and fucking dogs.’
Brian Rogers, knowing somehow that the call was ended, pushed open the cell door. There was a sneer on his lips.
‘What are you looking so scared of?’ he said. ‘You don’t have to be so quick, you know, it’s safe. Unless I tell anyone what you’ve said. It’s completely safe.’
